


Merry Wanderers of the Night

by igraine1419



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:11:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A creature from legend sends Frodo and Sam some dreams they will not forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Wanderers of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Waymeet livejournal community "Perchance to Dream" Challenge.

_I’ve been watching him. He makes me curious, with his practical hands and his open mind. He is easy to spy on; he leaves little chinks where I can slip through and squat quite happily on the hearthstone, watching as he pretends to concentrate on the trowel he is mending, carving a new handle with a paring knife with easy strokes of his hand and fist._

_I know his mind wanders; I see the little hidden paths it dallies along, gazing at the sky. He doesn’t see me. I have ways of making myself invisible, although now and then he will glance over to the fireside, glimpsing shadows on the wall out of the corner of his eye, thinking now and then that he sees things that can’t be there- the shape of a head, the curl of a horn, the flicker of a smile._

_The smial is quiet. I can stretch out my toes on the warm stone and linger, my head on my hand, swinging my legs over the flames. I can look around at my leisure, and imagine the ways I can meddle and mend. I’ve seen him often in the garden; he fell over me once or twice as I lay in the grass, stroking myself or making myself dizzy with the sun, courting its glare. He thought me an idle rock and cursed me. I followed him, keeping low in the grass, slithering on my belly like a snake. He sings as he works, but his thoughts are not in words-they stray further afield, as far as the big smial and within, entering where they shouldn’t, stealing like a shadow to his master’s feet where he lies like a lap-dog, belly up, wanting to be stroked. This made me want to howl- such devotion, such foolish longing, all caught up inside such a plain creature._

_Now the other, he captures my attention, but I am wary of him. He sees deeper, he knows my name, it is written somewhere in one of those snap-shut books on the library shelf, gathering dust. I dance inside, carved in wood and printed in ink, stamped onto a page and shuttered, confined, I rattle the binding to be free. I dare not come too close, or he will smell me out, or hear my breath, and send me out of the smial without a by your leave, or perhaps with a besom ( if he knows where such a thing is kept). I can find no footing there; I can’t enter where I am not wanted. Now this little one, he leaves the door ajar, and there’s always a welcome for me and my magic. He doesn’t know it, of course; I am clever and quick, and slip through with the wind. He sees the hearth is swept clean at night, the mending done and the ash blown away, but he doesn’t heed my whisperings nor catch my languishing eye. He only has eyes for the other one, but he won’t see- his head is stuck in his books and he sees only mountains and castles and haughty elves._

_I am sorry for them, truly; my heart bleeds…don’t you believe me? I do know the frustration of unrequited passion. How many times have I lain in lust to gaze at those that have no eyes for me but step by, brushing me aside as if I were a meddlesome tree? I fell in love with an elf-maid once, tall and slender as the elm, her hair dark as the shadow in the river and her garments dripping from her shoulders like the water. She walked, soundless and straight, through the woods one summer, many long dead years ago. I watched her from the banks, half-hidden amongst the campion and the docks and the lady’s mantle, lazily lying in the evening of mid-summer, when the birds do not sleep. I called her, even though I didn’t know her name. My blood hot with lust, ready to run. She was as cool and silent as the night, her voice thin as the owl’s. She couldn’t hear me-she was already distant, beyond my reach, and the earth seemed to tighten, binding me like vines would around my feet, as I watched her slip away. See? I am ageless and I am cursed never to forget. So, I am sorry to see these two so hopelessly blind and bumbling in the dark. I see it is up to me to open their eyes and I know just the trick to do it, so don’t mind me as I curl up to sleep here, by the fire. I will serve them well and in the morning the hearth will be clean and the shavings swept away as if they had never been…_

**II**

Sam yawned broadly and rolled his aching shoulders as he stripped off his shirt and readied himself for bed. Looking out over the fields, he saw the last of the sun’s rays sinking gold under the hills. It was a good time of the year-the long Lithe evenings meant more could be done, and he was happy to sit up working when the others had gone to bed. Sometimes he would keep a pint of ale for company at his elbow, or else the pleasure of a quiet smoke on the garden bench, listening to the low, throbbing call of the collared doves and smelling out the first of summer in the grass and flowers. It was a peaceful time; without any orders, he was free to do as he pleased and wool-gather at will. Usually, this dreaming would trickle through his mind like music as he worked, quiet as a stream, not getting in the way, but providing a gentle accompaniment to the task at hand.

Not this evening though; his mind had flitted about as unquiet as a moth dancing around the lamp, butting its head against the glass, and the thoughts in his head disturbed the settled rhythm of his hands, so no matter how hard he tried, he hadn’t been able to carve the perfect curve to sit neat in the palm as a steady trowel ought to. There was a buzzing in his ears like a hive full of irritated bees, and he wondered what stick he was poking them with to have stirred up such a fire. 

Perhaps he had been sun-struck; it had got rather hot by mid-day and Mr Frodo had ventured out with a wide-brimmed hat, waving it wildly to get Sam’s attention. Sam had politely refused the hat, declaring himself hardened to the sun’s heat and unwilling to risk injury to the finely-woven brim. Frodo had looked a little crest-fallen and perched for a while, disconsolately, watching Sam from a large rock, balanced at the head of what was the beginning of a rather splendid rockery. Sam felt prickles all along his skin as he worked, delving deep with his spade to gouge the heavy rocks from the little patch Frodo had decided on for the sweet peas. Frodo said nothing, and the air grew thick as if it was sprouting green tendrils in the heat, strangling conversation and making Sam’s mouth feel cloying and dry. It was as if there was something that was required of him, but he couldn’t make sense of what it might be, so he continued in the same way, working steady as an old ass, throwing rocks into a heap. 

After a time, he heard a slight rustling and slanted his gaze to see Frodo hopping to his feet and making a pretence at admiring a growth of seedlings under the hollyhocks, which Sam knew for sure that Mr Frodo had neither the will nor the inclination to inspect. If he hadn’t known better, Sam could almost have believed that his master was dallying, like a maid beside the hedgerow at haying. 

Brushing the dirt from his hands, his lower back pulling a little and his head throbbing, Sam stood up and dug his spade deep, steadying it against his arm. 

“Can I help you at all, sir?” he said politely, squinting in the sun. 

Frodo looked up in alarm. “No, no, it’s all right, Sam, I was just looking at these…” he poked with his toe. “These little things here…they seem to be coming up a treat.”

Sam smiled, “Aye, they wriggle up quick those, they like the sun.”

“And these … these… hollyhocks, what a wild array of colours they have burst into this year. I don’t remember seeing such a vivid display!” He cupped a saucer-shaped bloom in his hand and bent to inhale. 

“They haven’t much of a scent, sir, although their colours are pretty enough and they put on a grand show – Mr Bilbo was always very fond of them, so I took the liberty of planting a few new varieties – the lemon and the pink.” Leaving his spade unsupported, Sam joined Frodo by the bed and eagerly pointed out the new specimens for Frodo’s attention. Frodo nodded and murmured appreciatively, stroking the silky petals in a manner that set Sam’s heart racing. 

“If you like, I could order some more from the nurseries at Frogmorton. There’s a bold new orange bloom that might cheer up that corner by the white…I have the catalogue in the shed, if you’d like to have a look…that is, unless you have other things to do.” Sam added, aware that he was running on a little and his master was looking strained. “Perhaps you should put on that hat-the sun’s right fierce now, if you don’t mind me saying?”

Frodo looked flustered as he replied, pushing the hat onto his head. “Of course not, and yes, you’re probably right, the sun does bring me out in a headache if I don’t take some cover. But do bring that catalogue inside and perhaps we might share a glass of lemonade in the kitchen, where it’s cooler?” 

Sam knew now that he was probably exhausting his master’s patience, his enthusiasm for the garden being limited to short exclamations of approval or general bursts of delight for the deep rich purple of a delphinium or the heady scent of a rose. Never before had he shown any inclination to talk of the plants in any real depth. Mr Bilbo had been more exacting in his preferences, but since Mr Frodo had taken over as master, anything would do, so long as Sam was happy and the garden looked cheerful, so this sudden desire to inspect a gardening catalogue at length, over the kitchen table, was quite out of character. 

“There’s no need, sir, if you want to be getting on – I can order those orange ones myself next time I go into town…” 

“To be honest, Sam, I haven’t been getting on well with those translations, so any distraction you could provide would be most welcome – do fetch that catalogue and come inside when you’re ready.” Smiling encouragingly, Frodo turned down the path and made his way back to the smial, his white shirt flashing in the sun, as his hands idly brushed the lavender that grew alongside the path, releasing clouds of orange-tip butterflies. 

It hadn’t taken Sam long to find the catalogue, pushed onto a high shelf above the plant pots. Pulling it down, he paused for a moment, leaning against a heap of soft sacks and breathing in the calm, sweet, earthy scent of well-rotted compost. He had no idea why his hands should tremble as they fumbled in the dark, or his heart pound as though he had run up the hill with the wind at his back. He sought answers, but there was no-one there to ask, only his own mind turning things over like a fork through soil, and his dad’s voice reminding him how to be polite. 

After washing his hands at the pump in the yard and splashing his face with the cool water, he wiped his feet at the mat, being careful to scrub his heels, and stepped into the dim and fragrant kitchen. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the change in light, and for a moment everything appeared green before reverting to its natural shade. Sam noted how neat and tidy it looked and how rich the air was, as though something hot and sweet and just been drawn from the oven. Not sure of his place, Sam lingered by the door, straightening his shirt and tucking the loose ends back into the waistband of his breeches. 

In a moment, Frodo entered from the parlour, a heap of linen in his arms. “Oh, Sam!” he cried. “You quite surprised me then, slipping in like a shadow.”

“Sorry, Mr Frodo,” Sam blushed, running damp hands through his sweaty curls.

Frodo grinned. “No need to apologise, come in, come in!” Bustling over to the table, he laid a fine embroidered white cloth over the table with a theatrical billow. “There.” Stepping back to assess the effect, he added. “Do you think it needs flowers?”

“Flowers are always a good thing,” Sam remarked, shuffling his feet.

“Yes, you’re right, of course, excuse me…” Padding off down the hall, Frodo returned a few minutes later with a little blue jug full of wilting buttercups. “I picked these on my walk this morning. I know they are just wild blooms, but I think they are none the less beautiful for that, wouldn’t you agree, Sam?”

Sam watched, bemused, as his master placed the jug in the middle of the table. “The prettiest things are growing wild in the fields.” 

“But are not to be tolerated in gardens, I suppose,” Frodo added. “I doubt there will be any buttercups in that book of yours, I hear they are the gardener’s worst enemy.”

Sam raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Have you been reading gardening books, sir?”

Frodo was lifting a cloth from a plate of freshly baked fruit scones. “I have found a few in Bilbo’s collection. I didn’t read them so much as flicked through – the illustrations were very attractive-such lovely drawings, you could almost smell the flowers.”

“Would you like a hand, Mr Frodo?” Sam asked, as he watched Frodo rummaging in the pantry. 

“No, no, you sit down Sam, I’m just looking for the jam.”

Sam did as he was bid and sat down at the table, picking up stray yellow petals from the cloth with the pad of his thumb. Buttercups never last long after picking, the petals seem to give up hope and crumble apart soon as the stem is snapped. Sam brushed their silkiness with his fingers, watching how the gold turned almost transparent with wear. 

“Here we are.” Frodo placed the scones down on the table, and then juggled with an armful of cream, butter and jam, which he deposited with a graceless thud. 

“Let me help.” Sam leaped to his feet, arranging the dishes neatly alongside the knives and spoons. Frodo went to fetch the lemonade, urging Sam to help himself. 

Sam wasted no time in piling a soft, crumbly scone with butter, jam and thick yellow cream. He bit into it with pleasure, hungry after his morning’s work, hardly sparing a thought for the decadence of high tea at one o’clock. 

Frodo returned once more with glasses and a jug. Laying these down carefully, he looked at Sam and giggled. “You’ve got cream on your nose!”

Sam blushed and rubbed his hand over the damp spot on the end of his nose, wiping off a smear of cream. “Sorry…” he mumbled, ashamed of his greed.

Frodo fell quiet as he buttered a scone, looking out the window as though there was something intriguing happening on the lawn.

Sam finished his scone and then cleared his throat, reminding himself that there was a reason for his visit, namely Frodo’s sudden interest in horticulture. “I have the catalogue here, if you’d like to take a look.” Sam launched the heavy book onto the table and opened it for Frodo’s perusal. “It’s all in order – planting tables, compost, pests, cuttings, fruit, vegetables and flowers.”

“Oh yes, thank you, Sam,” Frodo mumbled around a mouthful of scone. 

Sam noticed how Frodo had managed to eat most of his without getting the merest smudge of cream anywhere about his face. Still chewing, Frodo started to leaf through the pages, peering here and there at the drawings of leaf and petal, thorn and fruit that lay within. _The Harfoot Gardener’s Compendium_ was a classic; many kept them sealed in their paper wrappings, unread and unused, for as well as the latest breeds they also contained as much reference material as any aspiring gardener might need and were a delight for the eyes, too, with many detailed and intricate illustrations. Frodo lingered on a particular page, scrutinising a dark picture with a list of names beneath it. 

“What’s this beast?” Frodo asked, “He looks disagreeable.”

Sam had a look. “It’s a weevil.”

“Do we have weevils?”

“Yes, most gardens do.”

“I had no idea…” Frodo grimaced.

“Of course, they ain’t as big as that – that’s drawn big so you can see the shape clearly. They’re quite harmless, just a bit of a pest. They lay eggs in the roots of plants and the grubs eat up them up from underneath. You can see the eggs – they look like little yellow balls.”

“There’s so much to learn, I’m amazed anyone can remember it all…” Frodo continued to leaf through page after page, pausing here and there to stare at a strange vegetable or plant. 

“It’s no harder than keeping all those languages in your head,” Sam replied. 

“But more useful. Sometimes I wonder why I’m writing words that will probably never be read, but sit on my bookshelf until Bag End is passed on to someone with no interest in books…” 

Sam didn’t know what to say, but accepted a glass of lemonade gratefully and gulped it down. 

Frodo had reached the end of the book and was idling with the tooling on the cover, tracing it with his fingers. Sam put down his glass with a soft thud, and a buttercup softly collapsed.

“I should be getting on,” Sam said hurriedly, feeling he had probably outstayed his welcome, and rising to his feet. “You keep that book, Mr Frodo, and tell me what you’d like. Thank you for the scone and the lemonade, I feel up to facing the rest of that digging now.”

Frodo raised his head, and his face looked suddenly very young and very sad. “Thank you,” he said softly, his hand pressed against the book. “I shall go back to work, I expect.”

Sam felt a lurch inside, as though he had caused his master pain of some kind, but he didn’t know how. “Have a good afternoon,” he said, nodding his head and raised the latch of the door. 

“Sam…”

Sam turned back at the sound of Frodo’s voice. 

“What is it, sir?”

Frodo idled a moment with the scrolling spine, his eyes wandering, and then he seemed to shake himself and smile, the brisk and jovial hobbit once more, the hobbit Sam would serve happily to the end of his days with never a word of complaint. “You go ahead and order those orange blooms-they will look perfect, I’m sure.”

“Aye, I will!” Sam said brightly, grinning as he slipped out of the kitchen door and out into the heat of the afternoon. 

Sam hadn’t seen Frodo for the rest of the day, but worked solidly until five, when he cleaned off his tools and locked up the shed for the night. When all was in order, he stood on the grass and looked back at the smial, hoping that Frodo might come out to say goodbye, but the hole was quiet, without even a wind to stir the curtains at the study window. Feeling strangely uneasy, Sam walked home in the fading warmth of the day, enjoying the last of the sun on his back and the sleepy cooing of the doves. 

That evening had been taken up with the broken trowel and his scattered and frantic thoughts, collapsing around him like the petals of those fading flowers. Now he was tired, and his muscles ached, but it was too late to bathe. He must go to bed and sleep. He only hoped his sleep would be dreamless, for he had begun to fear the clamouring voice of his own head.

With a sigh, he tugged back the sheets and climbed into his narrow bed under the window, where he could see the stars and the thin sickle moon, swinging high over his head. Turning over a few times to get comfortable, he settled down to sleep.

**III**

_I watched them from the window. They didn’t see me deep in the delphiniums, just my ears and my eyes visible above the flower heads, but I watched and waited and shook my head in disbelief. Such a promising afternoon- even the dragonflies were hanging in mid-air, quivering together in the heat, and the flowers were calling out to the bees, and the wind sighed, but they didn’t hear it-or if they did, they did nothing about it. I could have rapped on the glass, or shouted through the shutters, slammed that book on the table to shake out the dust and seeds, I could have cooked up a storm, threw in clouds of lust so thick they wouldn’t see their way out of it. But he wouldn’t let me in, the little dark one; his mind was closed, tangled as a briar-he won’t let anything through, and he holds himself so close it hurts. So I lay back in the leaves and I let the wind carry me away, so that I might break my frustration on the banks of the river in ripples and eddies. I could bang their heads together, really, I could. But I know subtler arts, keys to the heart and soul I keep- if they are wanted, and I see they are, even though these creatures can't. I can barely believe we share the same footprint, them and I, creatures of the hills, silent as the breeze. I hold the keys._

_See here now, how softly he sleeps. I’m practically sitting on his feet. He has beautiful golden hair on his feet, and my fingers itch to play with it, but my hands are trapped beneath me and I am patient. His face looks young, unguarded, and the moon caresses it, white and innocent, as if a potent thought had never entered his head. He is standing on a crossroads, looking down the empty roads, black silk rivers in the darkness, with the moon full and watchful. He never remembers his dreams, for they are light and flimsy as butterflies, and they drift and dart and slip away with the dawn. Sometimes he awakes warm and smiling, but he never remembers why._

_See here? Here, in my palm, see this? Seeds of desire, little flecks of dust, as unremarkable as any latent magic, curled into itself. But look, see? It glitters and gleams, brighter than your gold or mithril. Finer than any. See, the stuff of dreams?  
Shall I sprinkle this in your eyes? No, just teasing, it’s just my way. I want you to watch and see. I’ll take a pinch and lean over him, like this, see, and he doesn’t rouse, sleeping so soundly, his lips parted and full, as if begging to be kissed. I could kiss him, too, if I leaned in just an inch, dipped my head in the water…but I won’t. I’ll just take a pinch and sprinkle it over his eyes. He won’t even feel it, he won’t know I’ve been here. There – all done. Now, just you sit and wait, I have other work to do._

~ ~ ~

Sam woke with a terrible thirst. He had no idea how long he had been sleeping, but his eyes were heavy and his mind disoriented, as though he had been engrossed in a dream and abruptly ripped from it. Sitting up in bed, he looked out at the watchful moon, wondering at how large and swollen it seemed tonight, as though it had tumbled closer to the earth and swung inches above the party field, turning the green grass to silver.

Feeling unsteady, he made his way to the kitchen and drew himself a mug of water, draining it in one breath. Still hot and unsettled, he walked over to the door, noting as he did the trowel gleaming on the table, its handle intact, smooth and golden as though it had been waxed. Throwing open the door, Sam stood in his night shirt, the playful wind teasing in and out of his legs, surprisingly mild for the dead of night. One by one along the path, the flowers raised their heavy heads and opened up their eyes. Intrigued, Sam stepped out and stared at them, brushing their petals in absorption, wondering how the moon had drawn them from their sleep. It was so bright tonight, and the air so warm, perhaps they thought the dawn had come already. 

He wondered if perhaps a walk might clear his head. Half-forgetting his undressed state, he wandered dazedly down the garden path and out onto the road. The river ran mithril and the rolling meadows were speckled with stars, as though the sky was being absorbed into the earth and all the world was turning on its head. 

Turning to his right, he started to mount the hill. There was a light up there, a dancing thing that was neither moonlight nor starlight, but something fey that drew him in. It leaped over the hill, fading in and out, fickle and insubstantial, perhaps a trick of the moon, or elves moving in the woods, their light gone astray, over the fields and far away…

It disappeared into the trees at the bottom of the garden and Sam followed it, flickering in and out of the tree trunks like a wandering shade.

_I watched him; I could see him from the window, wandering behind the veil. I sit on the sill, my legs swinging so close against his master’ s sleeping head it’s a wonder he can’t sense it. But he sleeps so soundly; nothing could disturb him, not even my scattering of seed blown on the night breeze. Careless thing, to leave the window open, as bold an invitation as ever I saw, and such a pretty one too, and wary of the old folk-he knows us too well … and yet he left the window open, and the seed carries far on a warm wind. Now all will be well, you’ll see, all will be well…shhh…they are sleeping…_

Sam sat down on the lawn, watching the moon sinking over the top of Bag End, sinking down like an egg into an eggcup, radiating light as it settled itself within.  
The little lights had formed a ring of pale fire and Sam sat down in the middle of it, picking daisies and counting the petals off one by one … _he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not._ He was amazed by the thrill of his heightened senses, the silken touch of the flower petals, the glowing face of the moon, the smell of wild flowers and pollen and the beat of life thrumming underground, his own heart beating fast and heavy, his breaths light, all sense of time gone astray.

He felt someone sit next to him on the grass and he barely noticed their presence, felt only the shift in the air and a sigh, like a breath of air passing through a blade of grass. The garden was beautiful, perfect, not a petal awry.

“What a lovely night…” 

It seemed that the night itself had spoken and Sam murmured in agreement, twirling a bare daisy stem in his fingers and inhaling the incredible sweetness, his nightshirt drawn down over his knees, his feet sunk deep in tickling grass. 

“The moon is very full, fuller than I’ve ever seen it.” The voice continued on, wonderingly, as if speaking to itself. “It looks as though it has grown too heavy for the sky.”

Sam looked up at last, his hands tugging up more daisies, pulling petals rhythmically, and as he did so, he saw that it was his master speaking. 

“Did the moonlight wake you too?” Sam asked, vaguely recognising that he had omitted the deferential term that peppered his usual speech, sensing it possessed neither truth nor sense here. 

“It flooded the room, I could hardly close my eyes.” Frodo lay back with a long sigh. “And it’s so warm out here, almost as warm as day, it seems a shame to waste such a beautiful night lying in bed.” 

“It seemed the same to me,” Sam affirmed, blinked at the piercing lights that had sunk into the grass like fallen stars. He wondered if this ring of light was a passage to the world of faery and he longed to ask Frodo to tell him if this might explain such a strange and unearthly light, but he couldn’t seem to form the words. 

“It’s a perilous place, Sam. If you enter, you may never return.”

“I’m not sure I’d want to. If faery is anything like I’ve been led to believe, I’d happily taste of that fruit and that wine and live the rest of my days there, leaving the world behind.”

Frodo laughed, his dark curls decorated with the white curls of the daisy petals. Sam looked down and smiled. He had never seen Frodo look more beautiful. Surprised and delighted by this admission, he toppled over onto his stomach and gazed in rapt adoration. 

“Sam… are you looking at me?” Frodo said, in surprise, his eyes opening to reveal perfect crescents of blue.

“I am,” Sam stated boldly. “And you look fairer than any immortal.”

Sam was as amazed by his own directness as his master, and almost clapped a hand over his own mouth to stop himself getting into any more mischief, but Frodo only laughed louder, making himself more beautiful still, blushing like a delighted child.

This was beyond Sam’s experience. Never had he declared himself before and his own sealed up feelings, stored like an unopened packet of seeds in a dark drawer, now scattered far and wide, free and light and full of possibilities, out of his control.

He could feel the butterflies rising in his stomach, and the ache of longing uncurling deeper down. He wanted to kiss his master with such ferocity it shocked him. He could see the kiss forming in his mind, could almost taste it. He felt the hitch in Frodo’s breath, sensed the quickening of his heart.

But as he leaned in, the wind changed, grew suddenly cooler, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the lights turn green and furtive, slithering through the grass in a winding trail towards them. 

Sam froze, grasping Frodo in sudden alarm. 

“Snake,” he hissed. 

“No Sam, not here,” Frodo murmured lazily. “Not yet.”

It was already too late, Sam clutched hopelessly at the disintegrating fabric of Frodo’s sleeve, snatching at fragments of grass and moonlight, shattered shards of a mirror he couldn’t gather up fast enough, scooping up the reflection of the moon as it dripped between his fingers.

“No, not this, not a dream, no!” 

Frodo looked puzzled, and tried to rise, but he was fading fast, reaching out his arms, like someone drowning in sleep. 

“No!” Sam cried, grasping thin air, his body hurting with the pain of loss. “No!”

When he opened his eyes once more, he found himself in bed, trembling, his hands cradling his own pillow, damp with hot tears of frustration and despair.

“I love you, I love you…” he sobbed and the ache did not subside but curled up with him, ever watchful, as he fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

**IV**

_Don’t look at me like that. I know, I know, but sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Too much at once and passion is appeased. All will be well, I have promised, and Puck is nothing if not true to his word. Pity about the snake, but it had to be done-the snake has its place after all. They won’t forget, they will wake and remember every itch and ache, every word that was spoken, every thought that passed through their dreaming heads. Mark my words, all will be mended, better than before, for a tale needs an end, and this tale is frayed. I will stitch it up fine and close as a seam on a ripped shirt and then my work will be done._

~ ~ ~

Sam spent the following morning in a daze, his head thick and cloudy as though he had drunk too much ale the night before, although he was quite certain he had gone to bed sober.

Fragments of the dream passed through his mind with each detail recalled as strong and potent as if it were not a dream, but an actual memory that had a real life outside of his own head and he dwelled on this as he went about his duties, chopping the firewood for the kitchen stove methodically, without thought or care. Twice, he dropped a pile of wood onto the kitchen floor and eventually Mari swept him out of the smial with a broom, tired of his stumbling and carelessness, with a packet of bread and cheese wrapped in cloth and a flea in his ear.

The morning was already glorious. A thin haze hung low over the meadows down to the Water and the earth smelled fresh and clean; the spider’s webs hanging from the hawthorn hedge were jewelled with dew and the cattle in the Cottons’ fields were  
already seeking the shade of the spreading lime trees. 

As he turned in at the Bag End gate, Sam picked up the milk churn left there early, sliding cold and wet in his hand. As he passed under the orchard, his legs swish-swishing through long, damp grass, he thought about the little lights he had chased like glow-worms in his dreams, hoping to catch them in his hands and capture some of their magic. He had captured it, in a sense, if only for a moment, and it was radiant.

The smial was quiet as he unlatched the back door, wiping his wet feet on the mat so he wouldn’t leave any footprints. He put the milk in the pantry, wiping his damp hands on his breeches, and then checked the stove for signs of life. Raking up the embers, he fed the old fire with sticks until it roused itself and burned brightly once again. Moving to the window to draw back the shutters, he noticed they were already open, a thin breeze blowing through the casement and stirring the dying flowers on the table. The gardening catalogue lay open beside them, its pages fluttering, spotted with yellow petals. A vivid memory of Frodo’s hair decorated with flecks of white poured into his mind like thick cream and he lingered on it, almost reaching out his hand to touch as if reality were as thin as the veil of mist that hung over the hill. 

Sam had often wondered if there might be some truth in dreams, something beyond the obvious tangle of thought and memory. Often he dreamed of his mother and these dreams were so vivid he could smell her hair – warm straw and milk – like a byre. Even when he woke, he remembered, if only for a time. She didn’t seem like an ethereal creature in the least; she was flesh and blood, her wide hands rough with work, her eyes laughter lined, each small detail something he had forgotten. These dreams were his secret. Now this one too, this one that felt more real than any dream he had every dreamed, was his treasure, his pain.

“Good morning, Sam.”

Frodo wandered into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. He was carelessly dressed, as though he had jumped out of bed on first hearing Sam opening the back door like he had been listening for him. He looked tired-shadows still lingered in his face, and there was an awkwardness about his movements as he began to prepare a pot of tea, clinking the lid on the teapot and spilling the leaves. 

“Bother,” he said, reaching for a cloth and sweeping most of them onto the floor.

Sam looked again at the open casement. “You were up early?” he asked. 

Frodo stared at the window as if trying to make sense of it. “No…I didn’t sleep well last night.” 

He sounded uncertain, and a furrow creased his brow as he poured water into the kettle and hung it over the stove. Sam dallied by the table, picking up fallen petals with his fingers as an excuse to linger. 

“My ma always swore by camomile tea,” Sam replied. “Tastes like cat pee, but it does the trick.”

“I usually sleep well, but I was restless last night. I don’t know if it was the moon – did you see the moon last night, Sam?” Frodo looked agitated as he leaned back against the warm stove, his eyes wide and haunted. “It was very full, very low, or perhaps I imagined that…perhaps it was part of a dream.”

His curiosity aroused, Sam tried hard to remember what face the moon had shown to him as he had retired to bed, but like Frodo, his mind was muddled. “It was full I think. It peered in at me through the bedroom window, and ‘twas almost as bright as day.”

Frodo nodded. “Very bright, very beautiful. I thought perhaps I had been sleepwalking…” Frodo admitted quietly. “My dreams seemed so very real. I used to sleepwalk once, when I was small.”

A deceptive silence settled then that belied the whirling thoughts in Sam’s head, that perhaps dreams could be more than they seemed and somehow – somehow – what had occurred might have really existed in its own dimension. Perhaps it was a kind of sleeping sickness, or maybe moon-madness, such as takes the wolves in the mountains?

Feeling shaken, Sam made his excuses. “I’d better start on those runner beans, they’re growing leggy, and they need a good watering before it gets too hot. I’ll water the beds as well, whilst I’m about it…” He could hardly bear to look Frodo in the eye, so sharp was his hope that somehow, somehow Frodo knew … knew and remembered.

Frodo watched him from the stove, his hips slouched, his shirt all buttoned up awry, eyes dark and wandering, sunk deep in thought and questioning. “Later, Sam,” he said softly and Sam half stumbled as he dove out of the door.

_He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…_

The old chant played in his head as he went about his work, pruning things that wouldn’t grow straight and weeding where the rowdy yellow dandelions waggled their heads, as if taunting the wriggling of his trowel. He tried pinning back a wayward rambling rose, but found himself doing battle and coming out the loser, his hands and arms scratched and raw. The garden didn’t seem to want to comply to his direction today; it was almost as if it had a mind of its own and so it seemed that Sam’s mind was not his own either. All he wanted now was to sleep. He even harboured thoughts of curling up on a pile of sacks in the shed. 

Sleep called to him in slumberous rhymes.

_He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…_

Perhaps if he pulled the dream apart he could make sense of it, and come to the little gem of truth that lay at the heart, if only he could get back to it somehow. But dreams were not stagnant things, and this particular dream seemed to have grown wings. Even as he ground his teeth in frustration, hacking and tearing at a long, thick white root with his bare fingernails, it fractured into a thousand shards, as elusive and drifting as the hobbit he desired. 

Deeper he delved under the hot sun, tearing roots in handfuls, unable to reach what he sought. Cursing under his breath, he threw down his trowel, tired, sweating and frustrated. The garden shook him off its skin and lay back with a sigh and Sam decided to stick his head under the pump in the yard, to cool off his head and drink.

Stripping off his damp shirt, Sam bent under the iron pump and wrenched the handle until he could hear the gurgle of water rising, then he held his breath at the first icy douse and again and again until he was soaked and gasping, long drips running into his face. Blinking and aching with the chill of the water, Sam pushed the wet strands of hair from his eyes and stared at the kitchen doorway, a curl of excitement unfurling inside. 

Frodo stood in the entrance to the smial, half-shadowed and watching curiously, his eyes softly dilated, drowsy, as though he had never truly woken. His lips looked ripe and dark, as if he had been eating plums, and Sam wondered if they would taste the same as that velvet-skinned fruit, golden and moist, melting under his tongue. As this thought flitted through his head he felt a surge of arousal so strong he clutched the pump to steady himself. 

“You seem tired too, Sam,” Frodo said, softly. “I have been trying to sleep all day but I can’t seem to drift off.”

Sam stood in silence, feeling the drips cooling and running off his skin, aware of his undressed state as never before, the cool water hardening his nipples and making his skin tingle. 

“You seemed to be struggling in the garden. Is it too hot to be working?” Frodo eyes were restless, wandering. 

“Aye it’s hot, but my mind’s not on it today, I’m sorry sir…” Sam stammered, trying to regain composure, yet cruelly aware of the thick evidence of his lustful thoughts.

“Sam…” Frodo sounded uneasy. “Sam, do you think you could help me?”

Sam nodded. “Of course.” There was nothing he wouldn’t do.

“I’m so tired and yet I can’t rest, would you…do you think you could possibly lie beside me? Just for a while, I know this isn’t part of your duties, but I feel it might help…” Frodo trailed off, looked ashamed.

Sam swallowed. The thought of lying beside his master on his bed was almost too much to contemplate. “Yes, Mr Frodo, ‘course I can’t promise I’ll be able to stay awake. I do feel right wearied myself, truth be told.”

“You may sleep with me, Sam, if you want to.” Frodo smiled, a small bewitching curve that nearly took Sam’s breath. “I would like that.”

Sam wanted to agree, but stifled the words swiftly and obediently followed Frodo into the cool shade of the kitchen, glad to be out of the relentless heat of the afternoon, his discarded shirt hanging limply in his hand.

“This way,” Frodo said, as if Sam hadn’t been in every corner of the smial.

When they reached Frodo’s bedchamber, Frodo held the door open for Sam and let him pass through first. He felt awkward and shy as he stood beside the wide oak bed carved with the acorns and the roses, gazing down on the soft white pillow which would soon cradle his own rough head. 

Frodo smiled and looked down too, as if trying to see Sam’s thoughts. “I usually lie here,” he said, indicating the right hand side of the bed, “So if you like, you can lie on the left.”

Sam nodded and then noticed, with a jolt of panic, the grimy state of his working breeches. “I can’t lie on your clean bed in these filthy things, Mr Frodo, I’d make such a muck of those white sheets…”

“Take them off and slip under the covers, Sam,” Frodo suggested lightly, turning his back. “I promise I won’t look.”

Sam coloured at the thought of lying in his underthings in Mr Frodo’s bed, lying alongside him in nowt but a scrap of cloth and that barely hiding the raging thing within. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t, and yet how could he let Frodo down? If he made any more excuses, Mr Frodo might do the job himself and then he’d regret his decision alright…there was nothing for it but to strip off quick and slip under those sheets as swift as a stoat.

Unbuttoning his breeches with trembling, clumsy fingers, he pulled them off his feet and threw them over the back of the bedside chair. Uncomfortably aware of the bulge in his underlinens, he tugged back the sheets and almost bounced into the bed in his haste to be covered. 

Frodo cocked his head. “Ready?” he asked, his voice a little unsteady.

“Aye, I’m in,” Sam puffed.

Frodo walked slowly around to the other side of the bed, drifting in and out the stripes of sunlight that filtered into the little room through the half-closed shutters. Motes of dust hung in the air like golden seeds. Sitting down on the edge of the bed for a moment, Frodo seemed to be deep in thought. Sam rolled over onto his side to watch the back of his drooping head. 

“Is everything all right, Mr Frodo?” he asked gently.

“Yes, Sam…of course,” he said, slipping into bed beside him and curling onto his right side so that they lay face to face, although inches apart, for Sam was careful to keep to his half of the bed, his feet politely pointed away and his knees bent.

“Sam,” Frodo whispered. “Do you think it possible for a dream to continue where it left off?”

Sam thought his heart was going to break through his skin, it was pounding so hard. “I don’t know.” 

“I had…the most wonderful dream…I wish that were possible…” Frodo sighed, his eyes fluttering closed.

Sam watched as sleep overcame his master and it took all his strength not to reach out and brush the strand of hair away that clung to his flawless cheek. It was true, he was more beautiful than any immortal being that Sam had ever heard described in verse and song, or etched in those fine and artful books that Frodo kept on the library shelf. Now he lay here so close to his desire, Sam found he couldn’t sleep but, propped on one elbow, gazed and gazed until his eyes grew sore.

_He needs a little help, stubborn creature-the magic has worked too well, and now his eyes are opened they are unwilling to close…here, in my palm, these seeds of the scarlet poppy laced with sleep? I cast these through the window, see how they left the crack, just a chink, so that I can breathe the last breath? There…through the window they float like dust. His eyes are closing, soon he will sleep…and then? We’ll see…_

**V**

A warm dark breeze moved in his hair as slowly, Sam opened his eyes onto a glorious moon. The air was full of the perfume of many flowers and the song was in his head.

_He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…_

Hardly daring to breathe, Sam looked to his left, his belly sunk deep in dewy grass and daisies, one stem still curling in his hand, its petals stripped.

“Yes,” Frodo murmured. “I’m here.”

Sam felt inside himself for the boldness he had felt the previous night, but found it lost. Instead, a kind of awe had taken its place and he could not speak, only listen to the stirring of his senses and the urging of his heart to know the truth, or at least some semblance of it.

“You were lying there,” Frodo whispered. “And I here, and then you leaned over me as if you would kiss me here, on the grass….like this….”

And before a second thought could enter his head, Sam was bending over Frodo and cupping his face between his palms, tipping it back so that the moonlight washed full over his skin and his lips parted, the little bow of the upper one swollen in shade. 

“I desire you now more than anything,” Frodo breathed. “We can lose ourselves in dreams, nothing matters, nothing…”

Sam could no longer resist. 

Frodo whimpered under the first caress, a small flicker of tongue to taste, as the wasps taste the honey in the plum. Sam felt his desire thicken and throb; he could taste nectar and wine and something deeper-arousal and seed. Frodo writhed beneath him, his hips searching for contact, his arms winding around Sam’s neck.

“I need…” he choked and Sam understood, hastily unbuttoning his master’s breeches and drawing out Frodo’s slender length, stroking it slowly as he kissed him deeply, enjoying the rich play of their twining tongues, deeper and deeper, Frodo’s back arching until he was almost bowed, his hair spilling out like water.

Sam’s hand was wet now as though oiled with the sweet almond oil he used on his roughened hands and Frodo was gasping, clenching and roiling beneath him as if he wanted to escape. Tearing his lips away, Sam looked down at Frodo, panting and flushed, his eyes full of the hanging moon.

“I want you inside me, Sam. I want to feel…everything I can…” he seemed almost delirious, and yet the need was so fierce, the words choked their way out somehow. 

Even the words were enough for Sam to feel the first stirrings of climax, so he was swift to prepare, some innate common sense taking over where experience failed. After testing and teasing with strokes of his fingers and tongue, waiting until Frodo cried out in ecstasy, he slicked his own cock with his hand, already gleaming with his lover’s arousal and, lifting Frodo’s thighs up high around his hips, canted forward until he was pressed against the place. 

“Even if you are a dream, I will still treasure you all of my days,” Sam whispered, determined that the words should be said, even if they were to be forgotten. Tears slipped from Frodo’s eyes and slid down to his ears. “Now, Sam,” he said quietly, and Sam sank deep in one blissful push.

He moved carefully, holding onto every moment, fearing they might never come here again, gritting his teeth against the orgasm that was surging and breaking at the edges of his control, so strong he could hardly bear the weight of holding it. Frodo was almost silent now, his breaths hitching as Sam moved, his eyes never moving from Sam’s face, his fingers fluttering against his cheek. The tears kept falling, and yet his cries were joyful when they came, breaking through the silence, his seed spurting warm and wild against Sam’s belly.

It was too much. Sam buried himself impossibly deeper and trembled as he came, silently, staring at the blind face of the moon.

~ ~ ~

Moments later, they lay curled together in the grass, Sam holding Frodo to his chest and rocking him back and forth, sighing _my treasure, my treasure_ … until the words lost their meaning and reality grew dim and drifting once again, as is the way with dreams. Frodo looked back at Sam, who bent down and kissed his forehead, and in their eyes were fear and a desperate hope.

Sam held Frodo for as long as he could, although the light was seeping through his fingers like sand and he could see brilliant sunlight where before had been darkness. Rising into consciousness, Sam gradually became aware of two things; firstly, he was aching, aching as if he had run from Bywater all the way back to Bag End and secondly, he wasn’t alone. His arms were full of warm, angular limbs and there was something damp tickling his nose. Inhaling, he could smell rosemary, musk and salt.

Little by little, his eyes opened and what he found almost defied belief. His face was sunk deep in dark curls, damp and drooping with exertion, and his arms cradled his lover’s naked form, just stirring back to wakefulness.

“Mr Frodo?” he whispered. 

Frodo tipped back his head. There were the marks of love on his neck and his lips were lush with kisses. His eyes, although tearful, were no longer haunted but glistened with sunlight.

“You’re still here,” he smiled. “I hoped it might be so and it is!”

Sam laughed aloud. He couldn’t help it, it seemed the only thing to do. There were no words. “Are you…are you all right?” he asked, stroking down Frodo’s slender hips to cup the firm swell of his buttocks.

“Mmmm,” Frodo murmured, a teasing, slanting smile on his lips. “My Sam…I would never have dreamed…”

“No?” Sam replied, nipping Frodo’s nose and squeezing tight.

Frodo winced a little, playfully, so he let go and kissed his lover soundly instead, making him moan.

“So, does your real life self match up to your dream self in the bedroom, I wonder?” Frodo mused. 

Sam squinted against a blazing ray of sunlight that was shining in his eyes. “Perhaps we ought to close those shutters before we find out?” 

Frodo eased himself up and wriggled his hips, staring down at Sam with a smile and shaking his head. “Someone’s been up to mischief I think.”

“Who would that be, then?” 

Sam thought Frodo was probably meaning him, but he wasn’t quite sure.

Frodo smiled mysteriously. “Better close those shutters against any prying eyes…” 

Clambering off the bed, Frodo staggered over to the window, his body gleaming in the sunlight. Before he closed the shutters, Sam watched him peek down into the delphiniums under the window and grin mischievously.

“Farewell,” he laughed and then shut and fastened the shutters with a very decided snap.

_Well, I always said he was canny, that little dark one-he has more of Robin Goodfellow in him than he chooses to share. Pity to leave them, they look so well together I could watch them all day…if I was allowed the pleasure! But leave I must, and take my bag of tricks along with me. I’ll mend his broken fence post on the way out and leave the rest to fate. Farewell, and I hope fair dreams will follow…_


End file.
